Between Heaven and Hell (PA #2)

Prologue

Elizabeth (Pride), Five Months Ago

There's nothing I hate more than spineless little bitches. Well, okay, I also hate shameful little bitches. And unsatisfying orgasms. You know, like, the ones that come way too quickly and disappear just as fast? Those can go die in a hole with the rest of God's terrible creations, like pineapple on pizza or the concept of time.

Most of all, I hate that the concept of time has made me into a spineless little bitch. Growing older just means that my problems get bigger, and every day I worry more and more about the speed with which the future approaches. Sweeping issues under the proverbial rug can only work for so long.

Devil, I sound like Willow! Issue avoidance and underlying stress are basically her bread and butter. She must be rubbing off on me.

Oh, kinky. I should totally tell her that, too. I'm sure she'll get a kick out of it, even if she pretends to be annoyed by my shameless innuendo.

Anyway, enough sex talk. My present dilemma is that I turn eighteen in less than thirty minutes. I was born during the witching hour, which is super ironic considering how much I despise witches.

Or fear them, which is sort of the same thing. Fear's also not something to be ashamed of, by the way. Pride is all about owning your shit, fears and all.

Being eighteen years old has more significance in the realms outside of Earth. Mortal or not, eighteen is the fairly accepted age of adulthood.

It signifies a turning point in life, where a person may leave their family, go to some institute of higher learning, or begin a career. However, in the world of the supernatural, eighteen also means that you're able to meet your fated mate.

While the term 'mates' is more of a shifter concept, technically any species is capable of some kind of destined love. It's a lot rarer among non-shifters, though. Like my parents. Lucifer and Lilith discovered that they were fated for one another while they were both still in Heaven.

It was my father's idea to participate in the Hell Wars—the battle angels waged in Heaven over the rights to run Hell—and my mother stood by his side as any decent mate would do. When they won, because of course they did, they became the rulers of Hell. And the rest is history. Or HERstory. Why the fuck does everything have to be named after men, anyway?

When I check the time on the digital clock next to my bed—yes, we have all manner of modern inventions in Hell, although not every demon is willing to get with the times—my heart gives a little jolt at the fact that I have only a single minute left before I officially turn eighteen.

I can't help but run a mental countdown in my head.

Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight.

Sixty seconds has never felt quite as long as it does right now. Does time always move like my Sloth brother Aristotle, and I've just never noticed?

Forty-six, forty-five, forty-four.

It probably won't happen. I mean, I don't want it to happen. Or, maybe I do. If God supposedly made lying to other people a sin, what happens when you lie to yourself?

Thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty.

Am I lying to myself? Have I told myself a lie for so long that I don't even know what's true anymore?

Twenty-seven, twenty-six, twenty-five.

I don't love Killian. I don't even like Killian. He....smells. There's no way we're fated to be with each other. I wouldn't want it, even if it did happen.

Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen.

Oh, who am I kidding? I do love Killian. I like Killian more than most things in this fucked up world. He smells like bonfires, freshly turned soil, and....home. He smells like home. Please, please, please, let him be mine.

Three, two, one.

At zero, I hold my breath, but nothing happens. Nothing happens. NOTHING HAPPENS!

My parents always described this overwhelming urge to travel to one another the second they turned eighteen. Like, an invisible rope tightened around their bodies and tugged them to each other. I feel none of that. Just, nothing at all.

In fact, I'm starting to lose awareness of anything around me. I can't see my room, or feel the blankets I'm wrapped in. No sounds enter my eardrums. Everything is quiet and dark.

Is this a panic attack? I spend enough time on human medical websites to recognize the signs, but I've never experienced one myself.

What are you supposed to do when you're having a panic attack? Chew and swallow an aspirin? No, that's for heart attacks. Besides, I don't even know if we have aspirin in Hell. That's a question for Willow, our resident human and my favorite person in all the realms.

Okay, okay, panic attacks. What to do when you're—deep breaths! Except, I can't really feel my body so that one's out. Then, mindfulness! Try to center my attention on an object or something in my surroundings.

With all of my mental energy, I attempt to focus my eyesight. To just see anything. And, I can't. My body isn't following any of my commands.

I'm at a loss for what to do next when a warm tingling begins in my shoulders. As that warming sensation spreads, my body starts to come back online. First, I feel something, no, someone touching me. Gripping me, more like. With enough strength to bruise my tougher-than-mortal skin.

Sight comes next. My eyes find none other than Killian in front of me. Killian grabbing my shoulders and trying to shake me out of my stupor. Killian's mouth moving to form words that won't penetrate the panic in my brain.

Killian, Killian, Killian.

His eyes are glowing in the darkness of my bedroom. Even without my superior eyesight, I'd be able to see the fires of Hell that burn so brightly in those irises. I've never seen them look quite like this.

With a pop, my ears are finally able to hear what Killian's saying to me.

"Ellie, you need to breathe. Come on, princess, breathe for me. I love you, Ellie, please just take a breath."

Like that's all the instruction my body needed, my lungs finally contract and relax the way that they're supposed to. Air leaves my mouth, and I copy Killian's exaggerated movements to inhale and exhale. Over and over until my body feels somewhat normal.

Normal except for the fact that I feel an unfamiliar tugging in my gut. Following some unknown instinct, I place my hands on Killian's chest and the tugging goes away.

"Does this mean..." I begin, but am too afraid to say it out loud. What if I'm wrong, or I jinx it somehow?

Killian stares at my hands on his body before meeting my eyes. "Yes, Ellie. I've been hoping and praying for this to happen ever since I learned about fated mates. You're mine, and I'm yours."

He smiles broadly and begins to pull me closer to him, but I resist. "Why am I only feeling it now? I was watching the time, and I turned eighteen, and nothing happened! But, now I feel it? It makes no sense."

Killian tilts his head in consideration of my words, but never loses that bright grin. "I'm glad I wasn't the only one counting down the minutes, Ellie."

More like seconds, but I'm not going to tell him that.

He spares a glance at my bedside clock then laughs heartily. "Your clock is ten minutes ahead, princess. No wonder you had a delayed reaction."

I thump him on the chest for laughing while I'm still getting over my panic attack. Instead of getting angry, he just sends me a fond look like he's proud of my aggression. Knowing him, he definitely is.

I try to tell myself that I'm annoyed by this development, that the already besotted look on Killian's face is repulsive, but I'm momentarily unable to lie to myself.

A weight I didn't know existed is lifted from my shoulders, and I feel as though I can fully relax for the first time in years. If it has to be in the arms of a demon beast with more hair than sense, so be it. I like my hairy demon beast, anyway.